


Sweet tooth

by Anonymous



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:07:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25600327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He'd never thought this year's party would yield such a welcome revelation. Alfred was not complaining in the least.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Kudos: 40
Collections: Anonymous





	Sweet tooth

Everything was going great so far this year. For once nobody was complaining about the music, the catering was actually what he’d ordered and he’d managed to position the various types of entertainment in a way that minimized the chance of someone starting a war under his nose (Always keep the consoles with FIFA away from the piano room. _Always_.)

Alfred swept another proud look over the place. As usual the main living room had been overrun by the Europeans. Funny how even though nations that were geographically close bickered the most, they still ended up flocking together at events.

He couldn’t say he related to that. He had no clue where Canada and Mexico had gone. Something was seriously wrong with those two if they thought his birthday was a good time to prank him every year and he didn’t even know why they bothered in the first place. Their schemes were never worse than what he cooked up in retaliation afterwards.

He wandered around for a while longer, making sure everything was in order. The responsibility of being a host had been nagging him for a while now and Alfred sighed in resignation as he thought of quitting his rounds for the sake of mingling.

Don’t get him wrong, he was usually an unparalleled social butterfly. But he’d been socializing nonstop since his brother’s birthday a few days ago and there was currently more than enough restless energy running through him, owing to his people’s excitement and it made him want to just keep people-watching.

But alas, he thought, duty called.

The first group he spotted was that of the micronations, all adorably spiffed up in their best clothes, but they looked so focused on eating their cake that it would have been a crime to bother them.

Then there were the Italies by the window. And sure enough there were their usual German and Iberian tagalongs, coming to join them with drinks and food. Alfred shook his head. If he had to listen to one more lecture on why ketchup shouldn’t be anywhere near pizza he would give up ordering for his next birthday.

And that was an awful prospect.

Finally, his eyes found a conspicuous concentration of blond and he picked up the rapid-fire French that was being exchanged between France, Belgium and (that traitor) Canada. Well, that was as good a start as any. However just as he was just about to head over he noticed something that made him pause…

Someone was missing.

Alfred scrunched his brow and scanned the crowd. For all the shades of blond to be seen everywhere, not one of them was the right one. He frowned.

For a few years now he’d had a guest who required… special attention. Usually that guest trailed sullenly after France (comfort in familiarity, Alfred guessed) but right now he was nowhere to be seen and Alfred would be lying if he said it wasn’t making him fidget with anxiety.

Truth be told, he found himself fretting like crazy since England started coming to his birthday parties. It had gotten to the point where he would check the trash in every room for bloodied tissues, although he’d scrapped that habit after a few awkward encounters in the toilets.

It wasn’t England’s fault, really. In fact if he knew the extent of Alfred’s fretting, he’d probably take it for pity and stop coming altogether.

But that still didn’t stop Alfred from worrying.

Adding some urgency to his gait, he made his way out of the crowded living room and into the hallway. If memory served, whenever England was feeling more gloomy than usual, he would retreat to the room where he was least likely to be bugged by others. That made the place where the South American nations had gathered his best bet.

That’s where Alfred headed to and he nearly tripped over himself when he got it right on the first try.

England really was there. Tucked halfway behind an elaborate house plant and a statue Alfred didn’t even know he owned. He didn’t look too bad, Alfred reasoned, at least not too bad to be eating from the flimsy plastic plate that held his cake.

(He also looked far from bad in that button-up but Alfred strangled that thought on the spot. ‘Not the right time’ he reminded himself.)

Giving a few last adjustments to his clothes, he took a deep breath and made a beeline for the other, plastering a bright smile on his face as if he hadn’t just shoved his hands in his pockets to stop himself from fidgeting.

“Yo, England! Already gave up on socializing, huh? Didn’t know you were a quitter.” Alfred smiled and held his breath. Then a huge cloud of anxiety evaporated from his mind when he was met with a slightly strained look rather than a hollow-eyed sickly one.

“There’s only so much frog I can take for one night.” England shrugged and Alfred wanted to hug him.

To an outsider the impulse might have seemed odd but Alfred knew England better than most. This was England’s attempt at standing strong and Alfred mentally gave his shoulder a grateful squeeze. That stiff upper lip was no joke huh?

Despite England’s best efforts however, Alfred could still see the tiny signs of fatigue and discomfort that gave him away. Alfred frowned. This wasn’t the England he was used to in public. The one that threw scathing witticisms around and commanded the attention of half the room simply by being there. Looking down, Alfred felt his stomach plummet even further when he noticed England’s plate.

“You haven’t eaten much of your cake.” He pouted.

And that’s when he got a reaction he hadn’t for the life of him expected to get.

England’s back suddenly went rigid as a vivid shade of red lit up his face, from the tip of his ears down to his neck. Alfred couldn’t deny it looked gorgeous on him – contrasting with his eyes in a way he’d never seen before and helping the freckles on England’s cheeks stand out in the semi-lit room. For all Alfred knew, England and his blush were the only things that existed in the room in that moment.

His mouth hung open as he took it all in but he somehow managed to notice as England pulled his plate closer to himself. That prompted Alfred to look more closely and upon further inspection, he discovered something curious.

Alfred had been the one doling out the pieces of cake earlier. And he remembered the piece he had handed England: something, some childish desire to please maybe, had made him choose a piece with a perfectly centered white sugarpaste star on top. It was stupid. A stupid question of aesthetics. But then again, Alfred constantly found himself going stupid around England these days.

Anyways this was not the piece he had given England as it had the remains of a red stripe going across the top of it instead.

 _Which means…_ Alfred grinned to himself, feeling delight bloom in his chest.

“This is your second piece of cake.” He said.

England turned even redder at that, if that was possible.

“It looked like there was plenty to go around!” He sputtered, eyes darting anywhere but Alfred’s face. This caused a laugh to bubble up Alfred’s throat and he threw his head back, attracting a few curious stares.

“Dude, I get weeks’ worth of leftovers every year – dig in!” he said, feeling the corners of his eyes crinkle.

It was true – every year he invited all the nations to his birthday and there were those that came whenever they pleased (mostly depending on the political climate) and they never bothered to send him a heads up when they decided to skip. But he always ordered a cake big enough for everyone just to be safe.

And now it had led him to a funny discovery.

Come to think of it, England had never left so much as a crumb of his cake. Even when he showed up looking half dead, with a bloodied napkin glued to his mouth and swaying on his feet, he always polished his plate clean. Well, clean of sweets anyways.

It made sense now, Alfred thought, he’d always wondered what France meant when he said all it took was a plate of eclairs and England would be a cat rubbing against your ankles. He was surprised it took him so long to figure it out.

He might have been fooled by the fact that England always took those little cakes with his afternoon tea. Alfred had thought the tea was the priority in that scenario and the cakes were just England’s obsession with protocol.

Surprisingly, he was wrong.

“Did you try the cupcakes?” He asked, emboldened by a surge of good mood. _England has a sweet tooth~_ , his mind played on repeat and he couldn’t stop thinking about how adorable it was.

The next wave of redness that flooded England’s face told him everything he needed to know. He made a mental note of sending England home with a couple of Tupperware containers and suppressed the twinge of his conscience that the thought elicited.

He usually donated those leftovers to homeless shelters but it wouldn’t hurt to part with a couple dozen cupcakes. He’d make sure to order some fresh pizzas for the shelters to compensate. It would be worth it if he managed to convince England to take home some of the sweets. Alfred had a sneaking suspicion that he didn’t indulge his cravings as often as he would like to, knowing the strict standard of self-discipline England held himself to. If he inevitably ended up with extra food on his hands, however, Alfred was sure he wouldn’t let it go to waste.

That was another thing about England – he never let anything go to waste.

 _Right_ , Alfred thought as he watched England fumble for excuses, his priority was clear from now on: Always make sure to feed England as many sweets as possible.

To say that it worked out well in the end would be an understatement.

A few weeks later Alfred got a text just as he was finishing up his paperwork:

_‘You gave me too many bloody Tupperware containers’_

_Sent: 5:56 pm_

_‘… when can I return them?’_

_Sent: 6:30 pm_

Alfred grinned as he read the last message, already googling the best luxury patisseries in the area. He was going to spoil England rotten. And he wouldn’t be Alfred Jones if he didn’t manage to land himself a proper date as a result.


End file.
